


Incarcerous

by La_Matrona, ShayaLonnie



Series: Outlet!verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Sequel, Sequel to Outlet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27185954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Matrona/pseuds/La_Matrona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/pseuds/ShayaLonnie
Summary: With the war long behind them and their lives ever moving forward, Harry and Hermione have learnt to cope with their wounds, but when balancing parenthood, careers, and their relationship proves more difficult than they'd anticipated, they're quickly reminded that simply coping may not be enough.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Outlet!verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984487
Comments: 62
Kudos: 312
Collections: Good Girl Hermione





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We want to thank everyone who read and left such amazing comments on Outlet! Despite starting writing it at the start of this last year, that story was really what helped get us both through 2020. Because we loved it (and YOU) so much, we just knew that we had to keep the universe going forward! 
> 
> We really hope you enjoy!

"Was the train always this big?" Harry asked, looking up at the big, red steam engine with wide eyes.

Every September 1st since Teddy had gone off to Hogwarts for the first time, he'd seen it—and then when saying goodbye to various nieces and nephews—but for some reason, sending James away for school felt different. Seeing the Hogwarts Express in this new light suddenly made Harry feel all of eleven again himself. He scratched at his short, thick beard with blunted nails as a reminder of his age (not that the few pops in certain joints would let him forget it).

"Must've been," said Ron, fixing the collar of his crimson uniform and then shouting across the platform. "Oi, you lot get back here!"

Glancing at his childhood best friend, Harry chuckled as he admired the neatly pressed Auror uniform. The stiffness of the fabric was one of many things he did _not_ miss about the job, having been retired for just over six years, and he was thrilled that he didn't have to go into the Ministry after dropping James off. No longer subject to long shifts sitting behind a desk doing tedious reports or being called out to dangerous situations at a moment's notice were both huge benefits of working for himself now. But it was the lack of recognition from the public in the middle of a workday that was his favourite perk.

"Have you got your mirror, love?" At his side, Hermione was leaning down (just slightly as James nearly matched her in height already) to fuss over their son's unadorned black uniform which she had insisted he don in the nearest loo the moment they'd hit the platform. The robes were a little big on him, but they both knew that James would hit another growth spurt soon enough, and by the time he came home at the end of the year, he'd be due for another new set.

"It's in the trunk," James groused.

Briefly tempted to tell his son to watch his tone, though Harry was rarely—if _ever_ —the disciplinarian, he was distracted by the weight of his daughter in his arms, heavily sobbing against the lapel of his coat. He'd barely managed to get her thick curls into a high ponytail that morning, and the tight spirals were shoved in his face as she cried.

"It'll be okay," he said, soothing her with a gentle hand on her back. "He'll be home for Christmas as soon as you can blink."

Margot just cried harder. Frankly, Harry was surprised considering his two children had been fighting over the last piece of toast just that morning.

"Jamie, why don't you say goodbye properly," Hermione pressed once she'd stood to her full and unimpressive height once more, and then she nudged him in Margot's direction.

At Hermione's prompting, Harry set Margot down on the ground, watching with a broken heart as she turned to face her brother with splotchy cheeks and wet green eyes that matched both his and Harry's perfectly.

"Don't cry, Escargot," James said with a teasing grin as he poked at her ponytail. "I'll be back soon."

Harry huffed a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was no use telling his son to stop with the name-calling. He'd been at it since Margot had learnt to talk back.

"It's not _you_ I'll miss." Margot wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "It's Mrs Nesbit."

Harry gave Hermione an incredulous look. Of _course_ their daughter would miss the bloody owl more than her brother. Harry understood, of course. Mrs Nesbit had been with them since Margot had been born, though Friede was still alive and thriving despite her old age. It made more sense to send Mrs Nesbit since she'd be travelling much farther than Harry would like Friede to.

"I'll send her with letters once a month," James promised.

Hermione looked unamused. "Jamie."

"Fine. Every other week, but I can't promise more than that." He leant down and put an arm around his sister's trembling shoulders. "Stop crying, will you?"

Despite the words and tone, Harry felt proud of his son for consoling his little sister.

In contrast, down the platform, Ron's eldest two Hogwarts-bound children, Lancel and Ron Jr, were fighting over who got to put their trunk on the train first. Their seven-year-old twins, Basil and Rosemary, were each clinging to one of Lavender's legs, preventing her from moving.

"Glad we only had the two," Harry muttered, tilting his head toward Hermione.

"Oh. Didn't I mention I'm expecting?"

He felt his stomach drop down into his bollocks for a brief moment until he saw the teasing sparkle in her eyes. Levelling his gaze at his wife, he mentally told himself that she'd pay for that joke later on. He wouldn't exactly dislike having another, but they'd finally escaped the early years, and Margot was getting more and more independent, allowing them a bit more freedom since she was sleeping through the night and had stopped coming into their room at all hours as well.

"You're not funny."

Hermione threw him a grin. "Little bit."

"What's Mummy expecting?" Margot asked.

"A timeout," Harry replied just as Hermione answered, "An owl."

"Dad, could you help me with the trunk?"

Turning to James, Harry grabbed the handle on one side, allowing his son to pick up the other and shift the trunk toward the train. One carriage away, he saw Teddy—a newly minted fifth year Prefect—helping a little blond girl with her trunk. Harry felt a sudden, strange tingle trickle down his spine. Shrugging it off, Harry shifted James's trunk onto the train, pushing it toward the back to allow room for others.

"You got it?" a familiar voice asked.

Harry turned and smiled as his godson approached. "We're all set, I think," he told Teddy, grinning as the boy's bright turquoise hair shifted slightly in the light, appearing opalescent. "You ready for all the responsibilities this year? It's not for the faint of heart."

Teddy snorted, looking so much like Tonks that it still hurt a little. "How would _you_ know?" he asked, looking at Hermione. "From what I've heard, Aunt Hermione did all the work."

"Still does," said James with a reckless grin.

Despite looking so much like his mother, Harry saw Remus in Teddy's eyes and knew that the responsibility of Prefect was something he'd worked very hard for and could shoulder just fine. Pulling the boy in for a tight hug, Harry whispered, "Look after him, won't you?"

Teddy nodded, giving Harry a squeeze. "Him and every other firstie."

"Harry, your brother's just arrived!"

Looking over his shoulder at Hermione's announcement, Harry grinned at the same time as James took off running down the platform, practically launching himself into a pair of massive arms that lifted him high into the air.

"Oof, watch the shins, mate."

Taking Hermione's hand and leading both her and Margot, Harry smiled as they approached the newly arrived family. "Dudley," he greeted. "He too heavy for you now?"

As more and more time had passed since his initial contact with Dudley during his final year at Hogwarts, the two cousins had grown more and more like the brothers they should have been raised as. When James had started speaking and accidentally called Dudley "Uncle", Dudley had nearly wept at the moniker.

Harry hadn't seen much of Vernon and Petunia over the years, but since Harry's and Dudley's children were near the same age and very close, it was either deal with Harry's family being at certain gatherings or not go at all. The elder Durselys often chose the latter. It helped that Dudley's choice of wife was nothing like what they'd hoped for in a daughter-in-law. First of all, she was a witch. Secondly, she was Luna. The last Christmas Harry had seen his aunt and uncle at Dudley's place was just after Margot was born. Petunia had run screaming from the house when Luna had allowed a family of endangered diricawls to build a nest in the corner of the kitchen.

Dudley scoffed loudly at Harry's accusation, giving him a little glare as he set James back down on the ground. "I wrangled two baby hippogriffs just this morning," he said, flexing his biceps. "I'm just as fit as I ever was."

"It was incredibly arousing," added Luna, who was braiding the hair of Harry's waiflike little niece.

It was still strange to see Dudley, of all people, on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. But despite being a Muggle himself, Dudley had become a parent of a magical child even before Harry had. Marigold Dursley had been born just shy of a year before James. Dudley and Luna's son, Sorrel, was only four months older than Margot.

"That's great." Harry ran a hand through his hair and tried not to look uncomfortable. Despite his own lifestyle with Hermione being quite a bit more intense than what he assumed Luna and Dudley got up to—he prayed—it was still strange to think of his childhood friend and his cousin having sex, especially if hippogriffs were somehow involved.

"All ready Marigold?" Hermione asked as Margot shook her off and launched herself at her cousin.

"Guess what, Mari, _guess what_! When James is gone, Daddy said I could use his broom! And I'm going to play with his toys, and he can't say anything at all!"

"You said _what_?" James asked in apparent disbelief. "Dad, you can't be serious, she'll wreck it!"

"Honestly, Jamie," chided Hermione.

"You keep your hands off my things, you spoiled little—"

Wrapping an arm around James, Harry pulled him close and covered the boy's mouth with his hand. "Oh, you're going to miss your sister so much!"

Dudley gave an audible snort, looking down at his own children, who—with expressions they had inherited from Luna—seemed as though they didn't even realise they'd be separated for the next several months. Marigold was smiling as Luna finished off one of her braids, and Sorrel was pointing at flying owls hovering around the train, yelling out "Look! Butterflies!"

He shared a look with Dudley, who shrugged and said, "Could be worse."

Harry chuckled, thinking of their shared childhood. "Yeah," he agreed. "Definitely could be worse."

"Are we still watching Margot for the festivities this month?" asked Luna, who raised her wand and tapped each of Marigold's two braids once, leaving them with sprigs of what looked and smelled like dill poking out at odd angles.

"What festivals?" Margot asked. "I want to go to a festival!"

"Festivities," Harry corrected. "Aunt Luna means Mummy's birthday." He glanced at his wife, already eager for it to be the nineteenth, because he'd been planning something extraordinary for months.

"Are you throwing Mummy a birthday party? Why can't I come?" Margot asked, looking supremely put out. She had a way of glaring at Harry that reminded him so much of Hermione when he was younger that he almost felt scolded by the girl.

"Cause no one wants your smelly snail face at a party," James taunted, though the insult was muffled behind Harry's hand.

"Apologise to your sister." Hermione didn't sound upset, she just sounded expectant as she raised a brow in their son's direction.

"I'm sorry you have a smelly—"

"James Sirius," Harry said calmly, pulling his hand away entirely.

"Mummy, James is being moody again!"

"Now, or I'll confiscate the sweets." Hermione's voice was toneless in the way Harry knew meant she very much wanted to shout.

"We could just pull the trunk off and send him to Muggle school," Harry suggested mildly. "Dudley, how was that for _you_?"

Dudley grinned down at James and furrowed his brow. "They made us learn . . . maths. All. Day. Long."

"I'm sorry!" James practically squealed, green eyes wide in terror.

"He's not sorry," said Marigold, smiling at Harry with a bit of dill between her fingers now. "He just doesn't want to have to learn more maths."

Sighing and feeling every bit of his thirty-three years, Harry glanced back down the platform where Ron's little brood had stopped the fighting and were now giving one another loving hugs goodbye. "Go figure," he muttered.

"Shut it, Mari."

"James."

"Sorry, Mum."

"Maybe let's get Marigold's trunk on the train," Dudley suggested, reaching for the handle before Luna shoved their son into his arms and began lifting the trunk with her wand instead.

"You've already had your workout today," she said, looking perfectly innocent though her tone was horribly suggestive.

"Mummy and Daddy had sex this morning," said Sorrel, as if he were clearing things up for everyone.

Harry stared at his little nephew. "That's . . . great, buddy."

"It _really_ was," Luna replied.

"Gross," said Margot, "Is that the penis in vagina thing?"

"Yes, darling," Hermione answered. "But we don't discuss it on train platforms."

James looked absolutely horrified. "Ew. I'm glad _my_ parents don't do that."

Dudley choked on his own laughter, his hand coming to his chest to stem each cough, and Harry pinned his son with a look.

James glanced between his parents. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Harry and Hermione said simultaneously.

"Speaking of things not to be talked about on the train," Harry said, looking at James pointedly, "or at Hogwarts . . ."

James sighed, rolling his eyes and tilting his head back. "I know, I know. Don't talk about the war. Don't talk about the family. Don't talk about Voldermort."

"But you can talk about your classwork!" said Hermione brightly. "Won't that be exhilarating?"

Harry groaned a little, still annoyed that they'd actually included the war in the new curriculum, especially since he knew, thanks to Neville, that half of what was being taught was utter fucking nonsense and events that had never actually taken place.

"And if anyone asks what Daddy's job is?" Harry prompted.

"I tell them that he doesn't do anything," James replied, looking bored.

His retirement from the Aurors had come just months after Margot's birth, after Harry had scarcely missed being hit with an Entrail Expelling Hex from a Dark wizard he'd been tracking for just over six weeks. Hermione had been at home with two children, and Harry had stopped to really think how they'd manage if he was seriously injured or, Merlin forbid, killed. He'd spoken with Kingsley later that same week, handed in his resignation, and helped close up a few cases over the months that followed before turning in his badge.

The public—or more accurately, the press—had been chomping at the bit to find out his reasons for leaving the Ministry and what on earth he'd had planned next. Much to their surprise, Harry had become a stay at home father for a few years while he'd planned out his business down to the last little detail. When he _had_ gone back to work, not a single reporter had known a thing. His business had been up and running for almost five years now, and, thanks to the efforts put into discretion, the majority of Wizarding Britain was under the assumption that Harry Potter was a lazy layabout, happy to live off of his inheritance.

And he was glad to know that his children were smart enough to help him keep it that way.

Not that either of them actually knew the specifics of his job. Thank God.

"And you can talk about Quidditch," Hermione added, drawing Harry's attention back to the conversation at hand.

Brow furrowed, James huffed. "I still think that if Dad could play as a first year, I should be able to."

"You're not Dad." Hermione leant in, giving James a peck on the forehead and looking more nervous than Harry had seen her in a long time. "You will write though, won't you, darling?"

Harry frowned, Hermione's words sinking in a little too hard. He thought back to his own time at Hogwarts, ever reminded of how much he looked like his father and how he'd tried to emulate the man he couldn't even remember. It was a hard thing to live up to, and being the Chosen One . . . It was something he certainly never wanted for his own children. And though he knew Hermione would object, he'd already purchased a new broom for James for Christmas, secretly hoping that McGonagall might bend the rules again and allow his son to play.

"Fine," James begrudgingly agreed.

The Dursleys moved away to say goodbye to Marigold in private, giving the Potters their own little space as a family. Harry sighed, feeling his heart tug a little as the clock overhead ticked closer to eleven. As much as he had loved his own time at Hogwarts, there was a small bit of him that had wanted to send James to Muggle primary instead, just so that he would be closer.

"Give us a hug," Harry demanded, his voice low and slightly cracking with emotion.

Shockingly, James didn't object at all as he circled his little arms around Harry's waist. Harry bent down, kissing the top of his son's head and hugging him tightly. "You'll love it, you know. It's the most magical place in the world. Remember that you can go to the Headmistress for anything, and that if you can't get time with her, you go straight to Hagrid."

"You and Mum will be all right, right?" The question was muffled against his shoulder, and Harry chuckled a little and ruffled James's hair, still glad that he'd inherited Hermione's curls.

"Margot will take care of us," Harry promised.

As if on cue, Margot burst into another fresh set of tears. At the sound, James pushed away from Harry, spotted his sister huddled against Hermione's side, and made a beeline over to her.

"Want me to send you something from school?" he asked. "Mari says their Pumpkin Pasties are fantastic."

A little too emotional at the suddenly kind display between his children, Harry turned around to look at the train in an effort to let nostalgia distract him. Instead, he was met with that same strange chill running down his spine. He tried to shake it off again, but he couldn't. Not even the children talking could make him focus on anything else. Green eyes stared across the platform until they fell on a shade of pale blond hair that he'd not seen in years.

But there he stood, faded Dark Mark hidden beneath a bespoke suit . . . Draco Malfoy.

He wasn't sure if it was the old childhood rivalry poking around in his subconscious or the years he had spent as an Auror, but the mere sight of the man had Harry patting his wand holster, just to feel it; just to make sure.

But Malfoy wasn't there to cause problems. Hell, he looked worse than Harry did, though the blond did appear better at hiding his emotions as he kissed a little girl on the forehead. A woman at Malfoy's side took the little blond girl in her arms, silent tears forming in her eyes.

"Did you know Malfoy had a daughter?" Harry asked.

Hermione looked up, catching sight of the family across the platform, and gave a single nod but said nothing.

A few passing families gave the Malfoys a dirty look, and Harry remembered the trials of Draco and Narcissa, which he had attended. While the mother had kept all composure—just as she had done in the Forbidden Forest when Voldemort had asked her to check Harry for signs of life—the son had barely been able to hold it together.

Feeling overcome with sympathy, Harry pulled James in close. "Hey," he said. "You see that little blond girl over there?"

James nodded. "Yeah."

"You let me know if anyone at Hogwarts is mean to her, all right?"

Harry knew that his own children might have a hard time dealing with the fame of their parents, but he couldn't imagine what Malfoy's daughter might have to put up with, considering her father had been on the wrong side of the war.

"Okay," James said, sounding a little suspicious.

"Hurry up, you lot," came a brash voice from a few cars down. Harry looked up to see Ron pointing at the clock above the train. "No time to dawdle."

"Merlin, is that the time?" Hermione sprang into action, pulling James in for another embrace and raining kisses across his face as he let her do it with surprisingly little struggle. "Mind your professors," she said, "and whatever you do, know that you are loved and cherished and brilliant and—"

"The sun shines out his arse, we get it," said Ron, who was standing beside them now. "Let the boy breathe, Hermione."

Harry ignored Ron entirely, though he had been tempted to laugh knowing that Ron had cried the whole way home the first year he'd sent his own eldest off to school.

"Oh, let her say goodbye, Ron." Lavender, who had joined them, was waving at their two oldest children on the train as she spoke.

"Don't cause trouble for McGonagall," Harry cautioned James. "And say hello to Neville for us."

"Yes, give him our love!" Hermione called as James stepped onto the nearest train car.

James just wrinkled his nose and gave a tight little smile.

"Love you, Mum. Dad," he said, and then he grinned at Margot, who was staring with tear-streaked cheeks, her sobs having quieted at the promise of sweets from school. "Touch my broom and I'll turn your dolls into frogs for Christmas."

"Jamie!" Hermione scolded, though it was not her best effort as her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Only joking," said James, looking sheepish as he glanced back at Margot. "I'll turn them into rats." And then he darted onto the train and disappeared from view.

Margot's eyes widened in determination. "I like frogs _and_ rats," she whispered.

Ron shuddered and shared a knowing look with Harry and Hermione before muttering, "Rats."

"Better than spiders," Harry said with a smirk, and Ron gave him a dirty look.

* * *

The room was dark but she knew they were watching. She knew _he_ was watching. It made all the difference.

The bright spotlight shined down on her, warming her skin. The scrape of the rope over her limbs and her torso . . . between her thighs. The dull throb of her nipples between clamps that had been tightened _just_ enough. And his voice. Merlin, it was like heaven. It kept her focused—grounded though she was floating high in the air, suspended horizontally, face down and revolving slowly, offering the best view from every angle for anyone who cared to look.

"You're like my own little Christmas ornament hanging there," he said, running a finger against the skin of her ankle.

As he sauntered beneath her, she could feel his hair brush against the skin of her thighs, stomach, and breasts. And she knew that he did that on purpose. Hell, he'd likely cast the Hovering Charm with that specific height in mind, just to keep him barely out of reach.

"I hope you're not very breakable."

His tone sounded like a threat, but his words were a playful tease.

There was a shuffling at his words, and though she couldn't see them now, she could sense the crowd below shifting, their gazes sharpening to better take in the sight. She felt her face and her chest go hot, but as they did she could also feel herself going slick between the thighs.

God, he knew exactly what to say to push her to the limit, to remind her of her place in their dynamic.

 _His_ , she thought, _all his_.

She might have admitted as much aloud, but the soft gag between her teeth made that impossible, and anyways, her nipples were throbbing persistently now, and it was going straight to her clit, and she'd already forgotten what she'd wanted to say.

"How tight is it over her sex, Phoenix?" The voice which asked the question was gruff and unfamiliar and immaterial. She waited with bated breath for the answer.

With what sounded like a sharp flick of his wrist, her body was lowered just a foot or two and pivoted in the direction of the voice that had asked the question. Then she could feel his hand on her leg, gently pressing against her knee and touching the linen rope that pressed into the skin of her thighs. Despite being bound in the most beautifully intricate patterns, the rope exposed her sex entirely with a single knot tied to press against her clit before separating to expose the rest of her. He plucked at the line that ran over her belly, and the vibrations went straight to that little knot, causing her to buck her hips and cry out behind the gag before biting down hard to keep herself from moaning.

Chuckling to himself, he turned back to the crowd. "Just tight enough, it would seem."

Merlin, but he could be a bastard when they played like this. A beautiful, cunning, _talented_ bastard who would watch her fall to pieces twenty times over before giving in to his own desires. She loved that about him.

"And the clamps? How tight? How long do you leave them?" It was a feminine voice this time, and she felt the bright light track her as, with another flick of his wrist, her body slowly began to spin again.

His gentle fingers ran over her jaw and then collar bone, tracing their way down to her breasts. He touched the clamps softly with the tips of his fingers before giving a little tug until she let out a muffled shriek in reply.

"My pretty little Augurey has always liked a little pain with her pleasure." He turned back to the woman in the crowd. "Just enough, though. With these particular ones, I'd say no longer than ten minutes. You want to make sure to keep the sensation. Otherwise," he said with another deep chuckle, "where's the fun in that?" Looking over his shoulder, he asked, "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

She nodded, trembling still as she throbbed against the rope over her clit and the steady pressure at her nipples. If he kept touching her like that, she was liable to come. She wondered if he knew, if he was _trying_ to get her to climax without permission. She wouldn't put it past him.

"Any other questions?" he asked the crowd as his hand ran down the length of her body until his thumb pressed against her entrance and her back arched in response. "Because I'm just fine to keep her like this for a bit."

 _Oh yes_ , she thought, _that's definitely what he's trying to do_.

When no one said anything in reply, the lights dimmed just a fraction and music turned up. The deep bass sent a rumble through the air. She could feel it against her skin, a prickling sensation and a cool draft as her body was lowered as if of its own accord.

His magic rolled over her skin as he adjusted her position. No longer face down, she sat upright, facing the crowd with her calves still bound to the backs of her thighs. She could see them all now, men and women in various states of dress and undress, sitting in pairs and in groups and all alone, all watching with curious, hungry gazes as he stepped behind her, staying just out of sight.

His breath ghosted over her shoulders, and he reached around her, plucking at one of the clamps again before removing it and then its twin. She cried out as sensation returned to her nipples, blood rushing in and heating them both at once, the sweet ache she'd relished throbbing to a peak before fading.

"Such a lovely present," he said as he removed the gag from her mouth. She bit it between her teeth, holding onto it as he tugged for several seconds before she released it. It was a game they played. Well, it was a game _she_ played and he _won_. "What do you want, pretty Augurey?"

She licked her lips, looking up from beneath her lashes to meet his gaze. It was always so intense like this, dark and commanding and all-consuming in a way she craved more than she craved her next breath at times.

"I'd like to suck your cock please, sir."

She asked nicely because she was supposed to, because she really did want to suck him, and she knew being rude wouldn't earn her the pleasure. Here, with Phoenix, there were niceties to be observed.

He smiled and rubbed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and then slowly, her body was lowered until her knees met the magically-softened ground. She loved the view when she knelt for him. She could see sharp angles and hard edges that she knew felt marvellous beneath her tongue. He was fit, so fucking fit, and the tattoo over his ribs only seemed to highlight it. The crisp lines and sweeping curves were various shades of dusky green, and she knew if she stroked the magically inked leaves of the aconite plant, the flowers would bloom beneath her fingertips, each with a different name on its petals. She felt the skin where her own tattoo lay, just over her shoulder and down her arm, tingle at the thought of when _its_ flowers bloomed.

She watched as he popped open the button of his dark jeans and then slowly lowered the zipper before reaching a hand in and gripping himself. She licked her lips again.

But before he would let her even look at his cock, he said, "Say _pretty_ please."

She whimpered. "Pretty please, sir. I'd like very much for you to fuck my mouth." God, she was still throbbing, the rope between her thighs putting steady pressure against her clit. She shifted her legs apart, trying her best to relieve that pressure.

"Such a good girl," he said, stroking her cheek affectionately with his free hand. "Would you _like_ it? Or do you _need_ it?"

"Need it," she moaned. Nearby, she heard whispers, but they meant nothing to her.

Grinning at the right response, he withdrew his cock, thick and hard and just for her. He let her come to him, though, and when she was a breath away from being able to even give it a single lick, when she could smell the musk and the clean sharp scent of his soap, he sternly said, "If you come while sucking me, I'm not going to fuck you." And as if to drive the point home, he added, "You've done it before."

She shivered, spreading her thighs wider, keeping them loose as she nodded her agreement and then without breaking their gaze, closed the distance between them.

His cock was perfect. She'd always thought so. Thick and long and solid beneath a velvet exterior that she'd beg for hours to lick. She filled her mouth with him in one stroke, not stopping until he was at the back of her tongue, kissing her throat and triggering her gag reflex in a way that made her shiver.

 _Oh fuck_. She hadn't realised what leaning forward would do to the ropes which bound her. Her mistake. It had been so long since she'd been tied so well . . . so thoroughly . . . and she'd forgotten how talented a rigger Phoenix was.

She moaned just as he did, the small movement she'd made enough to pull the rope down her front taut, causing it to dig into her skin just as the knot over her clit put delicious pressure directly on her most sensitive spot. Practically scrambling, she withdrew, pulling her mouth off of him and tilting her head back to give the rope enough slack that she could keep her own pleasure at bay.

Looking down at her, he raised a single brow. It was a signal they'd perfected over the years that meant _"You going to say the safe word? No? Then back at it."_ So when she said nothing, he ran his fingers along the plait of her hair until he could grip the base in a closed fist, guiding her forward and right back to his cock.

"Since you need a little assistance with this," he said with a little chuckle.

He drew her back down over him in the next moment, exhaling with a satisfied groan as she swallowed him down and groaned in turn around his cock. She couldn't breathe with him so deep, but she didn't _need_ to breathe when that rope was right where it needed to be and she was pulsing . . . pulsing . . . pulsing.

"Fuck, that's so perfect. You're so good at that, sweetheart," he panted heavily. "Doesn't she look so pretty sucking my cock like a good girl?" he asked the crowd, and she could hear some agree verbally while others actually applauded.

"Okay, baby, getting close," he said, pulling back on her hair a little to ease off.

This time, he didn't need to move her head, she did it of her own accord, sweeping her tongue along his shaft as she sucked and feeling her thighs tense in response to the sensation the movement elicited in her own body. God, this was a sweet torture. Every move she made drove her higher, teased and taunted and made her so wet she could feel it dripping down her thighs. She wondered if the crowd could see that too.

She licked the slit at the head of his cock, relishing the taste of him, salty and slick against her tongue before she enveloped him once more, this time only going halfway down before retreating. She didn't think she could take much more pressure if she went all the way, if she didn't leave herself at least a little slack in the clever bonds he'd tied.

At last, after several more minutes, she pulled off completely, whimpering and closing her eyes tight as she fought her body's instincts and waited for the sharp, thrilling edge of her oncoming climax to abate. He'd told her not to come, and by _god_ , she'd do as she was told. If she'd learnt one thing about him in the years they'd been lovers, it was that when he made a threat, it wasn't empty.

If she came . . . Merlin, she probably wouldn't get to do it again for a week.

Sweat slick on his forehead and chest, he knelt down to her level and smiled as she trembled. "You look ready to just burst," he whispered and ran a knuckle tenderly over one of her taut nipples, making her quiver.

"Please," she begged. She knew she probably looked a mess, strands of hair breaking away from her plait, her eyes wild. She didn't care. She needed him.

"Give the folks a show?" he asked with a grin.

She nodded without even thinking it through. She trusted him completely, and she knew that look on his face like she knew the grooves of her wand or the taste of his cock. It was the one he wore just for her, the one that let her know he was in control . . . but he was in control _for_ her. And she was so very close, so on edge that any way he touched her she knew she was liable to lose control.

He circled her, slowly untying the ropes that bound her hands behind her back. He was precise with every movement, and she knew it was because he was also instructing the crowd on how to work the ropes without causing injury.

The moment her hands were free, though, there was a soft mechanical sound from above as a metal bar on wires began magically descending in front of her. His hands settled on her shoulders and then moved along the skin of her arms, directing her every movement until both palms rested on the bar. His wandless magic redirected the ropes, circling around her forearms once again and then gently around her wrists until her hands were secured to the bar. She could see them, thick against her skin, and just tight enough to remind her she was stuck.

"I've been aching for this for weeks," he whispered in her ear along with a charm that began raising the bar—and her along with it—back into the air. Her bare skin brushed against his front as she was lifted up, and she shivered.

He moved his hands to her waist and then her hips once the movement ceased, holding her stretched out a good three feet from the ground—though her legs were still bound and spread by the red, linen rope. His grip on her was firm and warm as he held her weight to prevent unnecessary strain on her arms. Those strong hands pulled her back to his chest, and she could feel his erection pressing against her arse as he pivoted them to face the hungry crowd.

 _Now_ , she thought. _Take me now, here where everyone can see that I'm yours_.

A small adjustment had his legs situated between hers, and she could feel him adjust himself, rubbing his cock against her entrance. The piercing he had at the head of his shaft brushed against her clit—something she knew was not a happy accident, because he was a masochist in that way—and her body jerked in response.

"Eager girl," he said with a grin she could feel as he pressed his mouth to the top of her spine.

"Please, sir." She let her eyes close, focusing on the feel of lips against her skin, of his hands still on her hips. And Merlin, his shaft between her legs.

Removing his cock, she could feel two of his fingers slip through her folds from behind, exposing her further to the onlookers before they dipped inside of her. Though the bar she was gripping held her up, she could feel his magic drifting across her skin to help as his free hand moved around to hold her from behind. His fingers spread across her stomach, running against and under the rope that crisscrossed beautifully over her torso and up to her breasts.

"H—" she panted, trying to remember herself, to get herself back under control. "Phoenix. _Please._ I can't—"

"How bad, sweetheart?" he asked as his fingers inside of her moved faster. "How bad does my Augurey want to come?"

"So bad," she breathed and then moaned as he pressed his fingers upward, finding the spot that made her see stars and pushing hard against it. "Oh _fuck_."

"Such a good girl, holding out for me," he said, this time a little louder. "I bet more than half of these people have come just watching you, but you're still waiting for permission, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" She was chanting it now, she couldn't think straight, couldn't bother with more than that single syllable repeated on a loop. She was going to come if he kept his fingers there, whether she wanted to or not. He had to know, had to be aware of the effect he had on her, of the talent he had for wringing orgasms from her body.

Without another word, he removed his fingers, replacing them with his cock and adjusting his stance to slowly sink into her cunt. She felt her inner walls flutter around him, stretching deliciously as he filled her so completely that she moaned, this time with relief.

"Merlin, Augurey, nothing in this world feels better than fucking you," he said with a groan as he placed both hands on her hips and began moving in earnest, thrusting hard and rough, but then pulling out slowly every so often. It was torture for her, but she knew it was a spectacular view for the crowd. Still, she whimpered every time he withdrew, whimpered and begged the way they both liked.

"Please, please! Please don't stop. Please let me have it. Need your cock in me. Please keep going!"

"It's all for you," he said, roughly pushing up into her and grunting against her skin from behind.

Every thrust jarred her body, swinging her forward and making her pant. She could feel sweat on her brow now, feel the ropes crisscrossing her body and knotted between her thighs rubbing with every move he made. She was on the edge now fully, living in the pulsing moments that made her shudder and scream for him. It was delicious and everything she had ever wanted . . . would _ever_ want.

Murmurs from the crowd grew louder in excitement, and she could hear several people begging right along with her. They wanted her release just as much as she did. They wanted to see her shatter. They wanted to see him break inside of her.

"I'm so close, sweetheart," he said, his thrusts becoming somewhat erratic, his breath hot and his voice husky as he added, "Beg me. Beg me good and pretty."

"Please, please, please!" One syllable again, and on the third plea, she knew she was going to shatter.

At her final cry, he gripped the rope around her waist that connected to the knot situated just above her clit and pulled it tight, pressing the knot hard against her just as he groaned a loud release and his cock began pulsing inside of her. She barely had time to register it, to relish it, because in the next moment she was climaxing too, that steady thrumming pulse exploding into a full-throated scream as her body seized and trembled and her eyes rolled back in her head as she lost her grip on the bar above her.

She didn't register much after that over the sound of her own heart beating in her ears and the hard breaths and whispered praises behind her. She knew, on some level, that the crowd must still be present, but she couldn't see them as her body went lax and she felt her arms being lowered. She couldn't even hear them as her senses zeroed in on the man still at her back.

He lowered her body slowly to the ground, and she could feel the tingling relief of the ropes being undone and pulled away from her skin. Though his voice was a bit muffled for her, she knew simply by routine now, that he was instructing the viewers on things to pay attention to including her heart rate, attention span, and, most importantly, to look for any possible injuries sustained. She had none. He was a professional—literally—at this. By that same routine, she logically knew that the crowd would be escorted out and the doors locked behind to afford them the privacy needed for proper aftercare so that she could curl into him as he ran gentle fingers down her spine, kissing her hair, and offering her praise and love until she fully came back to him.

"Perfect," she could hear him clearly say once they were alone. "Can you speak yet?"

Could she? She took a deep breath. Her throat was dry, her gaze still unfocused as he continued to stroke her.

"Oh my god," she finally said, her voice hoarse as she pressed her forehead against his chest. He smelled good, like soap and sweat and everything familiar and arousing.

"I haven't become boring after all these years?" he asked with a teasing grin as he ran his fingers through her hair, undoing the plait she'd managed to wrangle it into before he'd begun working the ropes over her body.

"I don't think that's anatomically possible for you." She nuzzled against him again, breathing deep as she pressed her cheek against the coarse hair over his heart.

"Let me know when you feel okay to move and I'll carry you back to my office," he said. "I've got cold water ready and I even managed to snag a small chocolate cake from that place on Diagon that you love. And then, I'm taking you home for a nice bath."

"Mmm." She didn't have the strength to form any more words yet, so she pulled him closer, letting her heart slow its galloping pace in her chest, feeling the warmth of his skin against her and the sensation begin to come back to the rest of her body.

It was always curious, this awakening after a scene. The way her consciousness moved from complete and utter bliss to noticing again all of the little human things that generally plagued her. An itch on her nose. A twinge in her thigh. A cool draft against her damp skin.

"Ready," she said as the glow began to recede. "Thank you. You're amazing."

"You deserve it," he said as he pulled her gently up into his arms, wobbling just a bit as he regained his own balance and headed for the black door to his office in the corner of the room that only the two of them could see. She always felt small and dainty when he carried her like this. Cherished.

"Happy birthday, Hermione."

"Harry?" She pressed her ear above his heart, and as he answered, she could hear the rumbling in his chest.

"Yeah?" he replied as he opened the door and stepped into his private office. The lights were dim enough that they could see without being a shock to her, and the fresh scent of sandalwood wafted gently against her from a candle she'd bought him a month ago that sat on his desk next to a stack of business papers to go through and a photograph of them with their children.

"You're mad if you think I'm sharing that cake."


	2. Chapter 2

The whole morning had been pretty much bullshit.

First, she'd woken up before the sun to Friede banging against the bedroom window and screeching loud enough to raise the dead, with a rat corpse the size of a small cat dangling from her talons. Then, she'd had an emergency floo call with her most demanding client, a single mother of three whose support network was next to zero and who had lost her husband the year prior. After that, there'd been the usual morning rush down the stairs to their home's basement kitchen to fix a nutritious breakfast for their daughter to turn her nose up at. So, when Margot decided to throw a fit about wearing the clean blue jumper rather than the unlaundered yellow one, Hermione thought she might go mad.

"Just try it on. For me." She was begging, but at this point, she didn't care.

"I don't like it."

"But it looks so lovely with your skirt." Hermione eyed the plaid uniform and held the jumper out so that Margot could see the complementing shades.

"It looks good to you, but not to me. I want that one." The girl pointed at the tomato stained jumper she'd pulled out of the clothes hamper before Hermione had had a chance to intervene.

"It's dirty," she tried to reason.

"But I want it to be clean!" Margot's eyes were filled with tears now, and Hermione felt the last bit of her patience beginning to dissolve.

"Darling, I can't manifest clean jumpers."

"But I don't _like_ the blue one! It's itchy!"

The pulse directly between her eyes began to thunder, and she pressed her fingertips against it in an attempt to relieve the tension.

"It's the same as the yellow. Same brand, same cut, same size."

"It's _not_ the same!" Margot let out a wail and threw herself to the floor, her body going limp as she collapsed.

"Merlin's fucking ballsack," Hermione muttered. There it was, the end of her small supply of understanding. "Margaret, I've had it up to here with the theatrics. Mummy's going to be late if you don't stop this—"

"I WANT THE YELLOW!" The child's shriek was piercing enough to make her head throb harder and loud enough to finally draw the attention of the other adult in the house and likely the Muggles on either side of it.

"Wow," Harry said as he stepped into Margot's room, his hair wet from the fresh shower he'd jumped into upon waking. "What's the commotion?"

He worked late nights at the club, and she, being the loving and magnanimous wife she was, often let him sleep in on nights he blundered in past three in the morning. Unfortunately, this had the added side effect of leaving her in charge of the children's morning routines. With James at Hogwarts, the load had lessened, but Margot was more than enough to handle on her own. And she didn't know whether it was all men or just _her_ husband, but even on mornings like this one, when Harry rose at a reasonable hour, a countdown of at least one full hour seemed to begin when he stepped into the bathroom. Neither of the children ever bothered him when he was inside, of course, but everything from fights over toys to the location of snacks was worthy of pounding on the door the moment she had the audacity to step inside for the five minutes it took to wash her face and brush her teeth.

"You've finished," Hermione remarked, careful to keep her tone neutral, before adding under her breath, "Finally."

"Daddy!" Margot was still sobbing, but her expression brightened at the sight of her father, and she mustered enough energy to pull herself up to her hands and knees before scrambling over to him and wrapping her arms around his legs.

"Good morning, Princess Margot!" Harry said enthusiastically as he lifted her into his arms as though her banshee cries hadn't been the alarm that had brought him into the room in the first place. "How's my girl?"

"Mummy's trying to make me wear the itchy sweater." There were tears in the girl's eyes and Hermione bit her lip to keep from saying something she'd regret. At six years old, their daughter had already learnt that Daddy was the choicest saviour in the wizarding world, even for childish problems, and she exploited it at every inconvenience.

Kissing her wet cheeks and then wiping the tears away with "Daddy Magic", Harry pressed his forehead against Margot's conspiratorially. "An itchy sweater, you say? Do I need to fight it? Where is the dastardly villain?"

"She's stuck on the yellow one," Hermione supplied, "but it hasn't been washed." She held out the blue jumper and Margot shuddered, nestling her cheek against Harry's collarbone.

Harry pursed his lips, looking at the jumper in Hermione's hands.

"The good news is that in a few years, she'll be wearing red jumpers," he said with a little grin. James's Sorting into Gryffindor had been a high he'd been riding for weeks now, ever since the owl had returned home with James's first letter from Hogwarts. Hermione confessed herself pleased as well, but she knew Harry felt a special sort of pride over the placement.

"I want yellow," Margot cried into his neck.

Green eyes soft, a sure sign that their daughter's manipulations had worked, Harry rubbed her back consolingly. He was kidding himself if he thought she'd Sort Gryffindor. Margot would be the first Potter in Slytherin, Hermione was sure of it.

He gave Hermione a sweet smile that said _"Don't worry, I've got this"_ , and she almost believed he would help her press the issue and wrangle their child into the clean jumper . . . Until he spoke. "How about we just run a quick Cleaning Charm over the yellow jumper? Good as new!"

She watched, dumbfounded as he withdrew his wand from his pocket and cast the charm at the pile of yellow fabric still on the floor. Margot cheered in delight, and Harry grinned brightly. Daddy to the rescue. Not for the first time that week—or even that morning—Hermione wondered if she should stop in and see the Healer before work to get her blood pressure checked.

She watched as Margot trotted off, the jumper in her clutches and her tears forgotten, to disappear onto the landing and down the stairs of Number Twelve before any minds were changed.

Definitely a Slytherin.

"Brilliant, well done Harry," Hermione said before she could overthink her sass. It was so often this way with him. So often the easy thing. And perhaps it was her, perhaps she made things too difficult, but it never felt nice to be the bad guy only to see your partner swoop in as the conquering hero. He _knew_ that.

Lifting a single brow at her tone, Harry wore a brief look of confusion that swiftly changed to an old, familiar, challenging eyebrow complete with matching grin. Lightly kicking the door shut behind him, Harry sauntered over toward her, grabbing the blue jumper still in her hand and using it to tug her toward him.

"Crisis not averted?" he asked, leaning down to brush his nose against her jaw. "I love the perfume you wear for work. It's different from what you wear at home or to the club."

She scoffed, letting go of the garment and turned her face to the side.

"I'm nearly late," she said, stepping back and giving him a pointed look with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. "Now if you'd like to be an actual help, could you please see to it that she finishes tying her shoes and gets to school on time? She's been late twice this week already, and the teacher was quite rude about it last week."

"Well, I'll have a word with that teacher," Harry said determinedly. "No one just gets to be rude to you even if—"

"I didn't ask you to have a word with her. I asked you to get Margot there on _time_." She wanted to go on, wanted to tell him that she didn't need him fighting imaginary battles or rushing in to save the day . . . She needed a _partner_ goddammit. Someone who could listen to what it was she actually needed in the day to day minutiae and do _that_. But it was an argument they'd had before, and she knew it was a conversation that would take much longer than the five minutes she had before her first appointment of the day.

Dropping his previous expression, Harry gave a nod before pulling her into his arms and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She tensed at first, still annoyed, but before long her body melted against his. She could never resist him like this.

"I've got this. Do you have free time to meet for lunch? If not, why don't you stop by the club after work? I can see if Molly wants to look after Margot after school. I'm sure she'd love to play with her cousins."

She thought about saying no, about being stubborn and holding on to her anger for just a bit longer . . . but he was smiling at her now, and he really was the most supportive, loving male on the planet . . . and at the very least he'd stopped Margot's tantrum. Yes, he'd done it by giving in to her demands and sending her to school in a jumper that would likely still smell of ketchup . . . but she knew plenty of women with husbands who couldn't even be bothered to do that.

"All right. I'm working through lunch, but I'll see you after?"

He looked momentarily perturbed when she mentioned not taking a lunch, but the expression vanished alarmingly quickly. He'd very likely bring it up later. . . she knew the rules, after all . . . but she was confident he would wait until she was in a better mood. He had a way of gauging that sort of thing.

"I'll get takeaway from that Thai place you love. We can have a private dinner in my office. Might as well take advantage of a little time to ourselves." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear and she leant into the little touch, letting her eyes close for a moment. "Margot's usually pretty happy to go visit whoever and give us a break. James wasn't nearly as accommodating at that age," he said with a soft chuckle.

"Accommodating. Is that what she is?" She opened her eyes and tugged on the blue jumper he still held in his hands.

"When Jamie was six, he started using _accidental_ magic to lock all the doors and Floos on date nights, remember?"

She snorted. "Merlin, I'd forgotten about that." The watch on her wrist gave a little beep. "Shit. I've got to go." She stepped back, straightening her skirt and her jacket before smoothing a hand over her hair to check that it was in place. "Give Margot a kiss from me."

"Give me one first," Harry said, pulling on her jacket and smacking his lips loudly against hers with an audible "Muah!" looking goofy as he grinned when she pulled away, unable to contain her own laughter.

"Down boy."

"Boy?" Harry snorted. "You'll pay for that one later, Healer Granger."

She smirked. "Well if the way you handled Margot was any indication, I'm confident it'll be less discipline and more reward."

Shrugging, and apparently missing the little bite in her words, Harry just smiled. "I'm a sucker for pretty girls who love me more than anything, what can I say?" And then he winked at her, apparently still under the impression that they were flirting.

She bristled. She didn't know why, but she didn't have time to examine it. She was nearly late, and if there was anything she hated, it was tardiness.

"Try saying no," she said, her teeth barely parting as she spoke. Before he could respond she leant in, giving him another perfunctory peck on the cheek and then straightening before she palmed her wand. "Remember. On time," she warned, and then she disapparated, leaving him in the middle of Margot's room, surrounded by pink everything, and holding a perfectly clean blue jumper.

* * *

Stretching his arms above his head at his desk and yawning, Harry winced at the slight twinge in his neck. An old injury from his early days as an Auror flared up from time to time, and Margot had insisted on a piggy-back ride all the way to school. He had a difficult—almost impossible—time saying no to his daughter, which he now understood Hermione had been outright telling him that morning.

After dropping Margot off and stopping in at the Ministry to say hello to Ron, followed by a check-in at Gringotts, Harry had made his way down through Diagon, slipping through a side alley past Madam Malkin's that led into a lesser-known path directly to Knockturn. A quick Disillusionment Charm got him through the door of the large building that he owned—the cleanest and most well-kept one on the alley—a dark black sign hung over the entrance and in silver script read: _Incarcerous_.

Once Harry had known that he would retire from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement shortly after Margot had been born, the idea of the nightclub had entered his mind.

It had been a while since he and Hermione had frequented Limitation. The club they had favoured so long ago had changed hands over the years, and it seemed more and more people from the magical world had found it. Not many they knew, of course, outside of their small circle of friends, but there wasn't a person in Wizarding Britain who didn't know what Harry Potter and Hermione Granger looked like. So they'd lost their little corner of privacy in the Muggle world for a time. And that's when Harry had decided to make his own.

While still working as an Auror, he had run the idea of opening a bar on Knockturn by Ron and a few other friends on the force. Most had thought he was mental, but Ron was supportive. With a go-ahead from his superiors, Harry had focused his energies on cleaning up Knockturn Alley. He didn't want to own a business next to black market potion dealers and seedy dark artefact sellers, after all. Once he'd put in his papers for retirement and made the move official, he'd purchased the three-story building through a holding company set up through the bank, where the goblins kept his name and details secret.

The lowest level of the club was a simple, though elegant—if one would call it that—bar with dark walls, oak tables and bartop, and an almost Slytherin shimmer of green in the accents. It hadn't been his first choice, but his designer, Blaise Zabini, had thought it would be funny. He'd also thought it would help with keeping Harry's name as far from the place as possible, and then the man had gone a step above and started spreading rumours that some rich pureblood owned the place. Maybe it was Zabini? Maybe not. Blaise frequented enough as a customer that most other patrons suspected.

Keeping his cover had also been helped by the fact that he, Hermione, Ron, and Lavender had publicly attended the week of the grand opening, posing as customers. About thirty minutes in, Harry had staged a fight with one of the bouncers who had loudly shouted that the Chosen One was banned from ever returning. Incarcerous had made the business section of the Daily Prophet as a lavish new club, and Harry had made the front page as a trouble-causer who'd clearly lost the plot after his shocking early retirement from the Aurors. As far as Wizarding Britain was concerned, Harry was happy to live off of his family's wealth, being a stay-at-home father to his children, while—gasp!—he let Hermione be the official breadwinner.

It was perfect.

The upper levels of the club were set aside for those looking for a little piece of the life that Harry and Hermione had stumbled into during that last year at Hogwarts. The bits and pieces they'd found at Limitation. Rooms set aside for all sorts of things that many might find depraved, but Harry, Hermione, and their customers found freeing.

However, not many knew about the upper levels of the building. They'd been magically warded with a bit of brilliance that Hermione had concocted by making adjustments to the charm that made Grimmauld Place "secret-kept". While most patrons had an idea of what went on behind invisible closed doors beyond the staircase that they couldn't even see, they needed an official invitation by someone who worked at Incarcerous to even view the access point.

Beyond the invitation, security was always standing by with a quick test for love or lust potions, and Harry had helped train them to even spot signs of Imperius. Nothing went on in Incarcerous without consent, and those that even tried suffered greatly for it.

Which was why Harry grew suddenly irate when Oscar, the head of his security team, poked his head into his office and said, "Got one on Amortentia just outside."

"Fuckers," Harry hissed as he stood from his desk, his neck still twinging as he bent down to retrieve a small bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk. A push of his magic activated the Glamour Charm that both Hermione and Nigel had woven into the runes on his aconite tattoo. Harry never left his office looking like himself.

"Separate them," Harry demanded the second he saw the couple reach the third level landing. The girl was deliriously happy-looking, and the man at her side—at least twice her age—wore a smug expression on his face. At his order, Oscar, as well as another of his security staff in matching a black t-shirt, took hold of the offender, pulling him away from his doting companion.

Harry paid him little mind as he attended the girl. "Good evening, miss," he said with a pleasant smile, opening the bottle in his hand. "We're just going to have a chat with your date for a moment. But meanwhile, he's requested that you take a bite of this."

He held out a small chocolate to her.

She looked confused, eyes bleary reminding him of Ron after he'd accidentally eaten up Amortentia-laced chocolates from Romilda Vane back at Hogwarts.

"He wants me to?" the girl asked with a dopey smile.

"It's his greatest desire on earth," Harry confirmed, feeling relieved when she took the chocolate-covered bezoar and swallowed the thing whole.

The man, meanwhile, was struggling against both the security's grip as well as a decent Silencing Charm to keep him from disrupting Harry from helping the girl. Merlin, she looked barely out of Hogwarts, and that set his blood on fire.

"Escort this lovely witch back down to the bar and give her a butterbeer on the house. And anything else she might want to drink once she comes back to her senses," Harry requested.

One of his staff took the girl gently by the arm and began leading her back down the stairs, and the moment she was gone, he spun on the man she'd come with.

"As for this piece of shit. I'll floo Auror Weasley and let him know we're sending over a special case. He told me just this morning he was feeling like he hadn't had any fun on the job recently. If he fights back and you have to restrain him further, I'll vouch for it," he added before closing up his bottle of chocolate-covered bezoars and heading back into his office.

His irritated state was somewhat mollified by the sound of a loud thud against the wall just as he retook his seat behind his desk to go back to looking over that month's expenditures.

"My, you look intimidating."

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Hermione's voice, but then he caught sight of her sitting in the armchair she kept in the corner of the office. He hadn't noticed her when he'd come in, but nothing was keeping him from noticing her now. She was smiling wanly at him and resting her cheek against the palm of her hand.

She looked tired.

"Long day?" he asked, standing back up to approach her. She worked loads harder than he ever did, so he wouldn't require her to come to him for a kiss, which he immediately applied to the apple of her cheek.

"Back to back appointments since this morning." She sat up straighter, leaning into his kiss and letting her hands drop into her lap. "Several went over and I didn't have time to do much in between. You?"

Sighing, he gestured to his desk showcasing the stack of financial papers and the bottle of bezoars. "Business as usual. Except I did get to send another arsehole to Ron just now. He'll be thrilled. It's been at least five months since the last person who tried to potion a person up the stairs."

She tsked, eyes on the bottle. "You think they'd learn," she said, and then she looked back up at him. "Good thing you were there."

"Good thing my team is trained well," he said, not feeling like he'd done much other than bark orders.

It was the one thing he did miss about being an Auror. Taking down some dark piece of shit was a rush that was absolutely addictive. But he had people to do that for him now. And they were good at their jobs. It helped that he was Harry Potter and most of them were intimidated by the name alone. A name they were obligated to never reveal due to the extremely stringent employment contracts that Hermione had drawn up for anyone they employed. It definitely helped that they were all very aware of the painful hexes she'd laced throughout those contracts if they ever did feel gossipy.

Five years into running Incarcerous, and not a single slip of the tongue.

"Aside from that though? Books looking well?" She looked as she often did when she was worried for him, when she knew he was under stress. She'd worn the look consecutively for nearly a year after he'd first opened the club.

Sitting on the arm of the chair and running his fingers over her hair, he yawned. "I stopped by Gringotts earlier. We had a lull last month, but that's to be expected. I think by the end of October, we'll be back up again. Usually happens once the children all go to Hogwarts," he said with a snort of laughter. "All the parents enjoying the extra freedom and willing to pay the cover charge for it."

The tension around her eyes dissipated and she smiled. "I've had a letter from Jamie today, by the way. Came just after my first session." She plucked a scroll out from inside the pocket of her trim, professional jacket, and held it out for him. "Haven't even had a moment to read it yet."

Grinning brightly, Harry got up off the arm of the chair and then sat down in front of it, pulling off one of her shoes and taking her delicate foot into his hand. "Don't keep me in suspense then," he said with an eager chuckle. "Storytime."

She smiled and opened it, spreading it out over her lap as he rubbed firm circles into the ball and arch of her foot, making her moan in a way that made him actually feel more useful than anything else he'd really done that day so far.

"Dear Mum and Dad," she read aloud once it seemed like she could focus again. She lifted the parchment up nearer her face. "I've lost most of my quills. Could you send more?" Harry snorted in amusement. At least it wasn't something more important that he'd lost. Quills were easily replaced. If James had lost his books, however, Harry knew that Hermione would be mildly apoplectic. "I miss you both. Please tell Margot if she stays out of my room I'll bring her a dozen of those cauldron cakes I sent last week come Christmas. Love, Jimmy."

Blinking in confusion, Harry briefly wondered if the owls had gotten mixed up, but the letter mentioned Margot specifically. "Jimmy?" he questioned, looking up at Hermione with a furrowed brow. "He's 'Jimmy' now? What's wrong with the name we gave him? Or even the nickname he already has? What's wrong with James or Jamie?"

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose he's trying to find his own identity? It's a rubbish nickname though. Far too American. Molly'd have a litter of kneazles before she'd ever call him by it."

Slightly consoled by that fact, Harry still huffed a little. He knew that James would eventually start growing up and that Hogwarts would really be the beginning of that, but for some reason, he felt personally slighted. He'd given his son his father's name. It meant something to him. Even Margot had been named after both Hermione's mother and grandmother. Frowning, Harry felt like changing his name, even to a nickname, was in a way cutting some sort of thread to his family history. He did recognise that he might be overreacting a bit, and it might be something to talk to a mind healer about, but he'd not been to see his in well over a year or so, and even though Hermione was a mind healer herself, she wasn't _his_.

_Unpack it later_ , his brain told him.

"There's a postscript too," Hermione added, as she looked farther down the parchment. "PS: Prof. Longbottom says hi. Please don't make me send him more messages from you. I need more ties too." She rolled the note back up and shook her head as she tucked it back into her pocket. "Not particularly loquacious, our son."

Sighing and digging his thumbs into the arch of her foot, Harry nodded in agreement. "Is it too much to tell us what friends he's made? If he's getting along with his cousins? If there are any awful teachers that may or may not be Death Eaters lurking around the corners?" he tried to joke but ended up tilting his head back a little, bemoaning his age. "Remember when he told us everything from what he ate for breakfast to every bug he named in the garden?"

Hermione leant back in the armchair, lifting her other foot for him to take and give proper attention to as she let her eyes close. "He was a sweetheart," she said. "Almost made me want a dozen more."

"Good thing Margot came along," Harry said with a little chuckle. He was happy to leave the whole 'birthing your own Quidditch team' thing to Ron and Lavender. "I don't think she'd put up with anyone younger than her stealing attention. She gets out of sorts when the younger cousins are around."

"Oh, I don't know." Hermione groaned a little as he hit a tender spot on the sole of her foot. "She loves babies, she just hasn't had a chance to learn the whole sharing thing. I'm sure she'd grow accustomed to it. Besides, experts say birth order starts again after every five-year gap."

"By experts, do you mean you?" Harry grinned up at her.

Her eyes opened and she met his gaze. She looked curious. "Have you not thought about it then?"

His neck twinged again automatically, and Harry wondered if he had it in him to go through the toddler years again. He wasn't old even by Muggle standards, but sometimes he wondered if surviving as long as he had when he likely shouldn't have had made him feel older than he was.

"Sometimes," he admitted as he actually thought on it for a moment. He'd always wanted to honour his mother by naming a little girl after her, but when Hermione had been so amenable to him taking over by naming James, he hadn't even thought about blinking twice when she'd suggested naming Margot after her own family members that were gone. "I actually enjoyed your pregnancies. You were, and still are, so beautiful. Plus, I couldn't complain about the extra ice cream that was always in the house."

"Hmm." The noise she made was noncommittal, but she seemed to relax deeper into her seat, and Harry took the opportunity to snake his hands up over her ankles to her calves, which he rubbed with the same level of skill.

"Plus," he said with a cheeky grin. "If I remember correctly, your sex drive was absolutely off the charts. And that's truly saying something, all things considered."

Hermione gave a little laugh beneath her breath, a small sound in her chest as her face split into a smile. "There is that," she agreed, and then let her knees fall open. Her skirt rode up her thigh as she did it, and her smile turned into a subtle smirk. An invitation.

Harry pressed his grinning mouth to her knee and let his hand trail up to the inside of her thigh. "That's my girl." He inhaled sharply, running his thumb along the edge of her knickers. "I bet after a long day, you need a release, don't you?"

She moaned, a full-throated sound filled with blatant desire. "Yes please."

Watching her lean back, legs parting further, beckoning him toward her, Harry slipped the fabric away from her sex and ran his fingers over her. "How bad?" he asked as he parted her folds and pressed a single finger inside of her.

She exhaled a single shaky breath, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, the fingers carding through his beard as she answered. " _So_ bad."

"Did you work so hard that you just need to let go, sweetheart?" he whispered, stroking her with precision. Then he turned his head into her hand and scraped his teeth over the inside of her wrist.

"Yes," she breathed, her fingers anchoring themselves in his hair now. "Please, Harry."

"Fuck, all these years and you still get so wet for me," he moaned, adding a second finger and waiting for that perfect little gasp she always gave him. He lived off of that gasp as though it provided oxygen to his own body. "Let me know when you're close."

She didn't answer with words, but with a tightening of her grip in his hair and the tensing of her thighs that told him she was about to crest.

Feeling the tension in his hair and around his fingers, Harry moved up to his knees, his fingers working just a little faster to keep her right where he wanted her, which was just on the edge. With his lips hovering over hers, he asked, "Are you hungry, love?"

" _Yes_." The word was whispered, barely audible as she seemed to focus all of her energy on what he was doing to her, how he made her feel. His fingers working her cunt expertly and ratcheting her higher.

He felt the briefest flutter around his fingers as she spoke, and then without another word, he removed them from inside of her and smiled against her mouth as her body froze.

"You probably shouldn't have skipped lunch then, hmm?'

"Harry!" She looked panicked, her eyes wide, her breaths coming in little pants.

Her hands sought his out, trying to draw him back between her thighs with a desperation that tempted him into grabbing the crop from his desk and tossing her over the chair. If she thought being edged without coming from his fingers was bad, she'd clearly forgotten the time when he had her begging him for over an hour when she'd double-booked her clients for an entire week, causing her to lose sleep and miss her days off.

He shook his head, resolute in his decision. "Don't 'Harry' me. You know the rules. You made up more than half of them yourself."

"I need . . . Oh god, please. I'm so close!" She moved in her seat, trying to press her thighs together now, to relieve the ache he knew he'd left her with.

"I dare you to come right now," Harry said, voice stern as he took on his official Phoenix tone with her. "See what happens, Hermione."

She froze, eyes locked on his face now and widening slightly as she continued to pant before giving him a little whimper.

"Sir . . . I'll do anything."

He leant in close again, pressing his lips to her jaw and trailing them up to her ear. "I bet you won't force yourself to work through lunch again." And then he rose to his feet, walking away from the chair and back toward his desk. "Feel free to curse my name under your breath while you sit there not coming. I'm going to go order the takeaway dinner I promised you."

"But I don't want takeaway," She was whinging now, but perfectly still, as if she were afraid to move and finish herself off after the warning he'd given. He liked that.

Ignoring her little cries from the chair, Harry called back over his shoulder. "Green curry or that coconut soup you usually get?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know our US readers especially could use a distraction for today, so here's chapter two! We love you all! Please stay safe out there!


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